have been in a state of mental excitement, that made it too probable she had
only gone to seek relief in death. The same places within three or four miles of
the Manor were searched again and again�every pond, every ditch in the
neighbourhood was examined.
Sometimes Maynard thought that death might have come on unsought, from cold and
exhaustion; and not a day passed but he wandered through the neighbouring woods,
turning up the heaps of dead leaves, as if it were possible her dear body could
be hidden there. Then another horrible thought recurred, and before each night
came he had been again through all the uninhabited rooms of the house, to
satisfy himself once more that she was not hidden behind some cabinet, or door,
or curtain� that he should not find her there with madness in her eyes, looking
and looking, and yet not seeing him.
But at last those five long days and nights were at an end, the funeral was
over, and the carriages were returning through the park. When they had set out,
a heavy rain was falling; but now the clouds were breaking up, and a gleam of
sunshine was sparkling among the dripping boughs under which they were passing.
This gleam fell upon a man on horsehack who was jogging slowly along, and whom
Mr Gilfil recognized, in spite of diminished rotundity, as Daniel Knott. the
coachman who had married the rosy-cheeked Dorcas ten years before.
Every new incident suggested the same thought to Mr Gilfil; and his eye no
sooner fell on Knott than he said to himself 'Can he he come to tell us anything
about Caterina?' Then he rememhered that Caterina had been very fond of Dorcas.
and that she always had some present ready to send her when Knott paid an
occasional visit to the Manor. Could Tina have gone to Dorcas? But his heart
sank again as he thought, very likely Knott had only come because he had heard
of Captain Wybrow's death, and wanted to know how his old master had borne the
blow.
As soon as the carriage reached the house, he went up to his study and walked
about nervously, longing, but afraid, to go down and speak to Knott, lest his
faint hope should be dissipated. Any one looking at that face, usually so full
of calm goodwill, would have seen that the last week's suffering had left deep
traces. By day he had been riding or wandering incessantly, either searching for
Caterina himself, or directing inquiries to be made by others. By night he had
not known sleep�only intermittent dozing, in which he seemed to be finding
Caterina dead, and woke up with a start from this unreal agony to the real
anguish of believing that he should see her no more. The clear grey eyes looked
sunken and restless, the full careless lips had a strange tension about them,
and the brow, formerly so smooth and open, was contracted as if with pain. He
had not lost the object of a few months' passion; he had lost the being who was
bound up with his power of loving, as the brook we played by or the flowers we
gathered in childhood are bound up with our sense of beauty. Love meant nothing
for him but to love Caterina. For years, the thought of her had been present in
everything, like the air and the light; and now she was gone, it seemed as if
all pleasure had lost its vehicle: the sky, the earth, the daily ride, the daily
talk might be there, but the loveliness and the joy that were in them had gone
for ever.
Presently, as he still paced backwards and forwards, he heard steps along the
corridor, and there was a knock at his door. His voice trembled as he said 'Come
in', and the rush of renewed hope was hardly distinguishable from pain when he
saw Warren enter with Daniel Knott behind him.
'Knott is come, sir, with news of Miss Sarti. I thought it best to bring him to
you first.'
Mr Gilfil could not help going up to the old coachman and wringing his hand; but
he was unable to speak, and only motioned to him to take a chair, while Warren
left the room. He hung upon Daniel's moon-face, and listened to his small piping
voice, with the same solemn yearning expectation with which he would have given
ear to the most awful messenger from the land of shades.
'It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me come; but we knowed nothin' o' what's happened
at the Manor. She's frightened out on her wits about Miss Sarti, an' she would
hev me saddle Blackhird this mornin', an' leave the ploughin', to come an' let
Sir Christifer an' my lady know. P'raps you've heared, sir, we don't keep the
Cross Keys at Sloppeter now; a uncle o' mine died three 'ear ago, an' left me a
leggicy. He was bailiff to Squire Ramble, as hed them there big farms on his
hans; an' so we took a little farm o' forty acres or thereabouts, becos Dorkis
iver you see, sir, wi' water at the back convenent for the cattle.'
'For God's sake,' said Maynard, 'tell me what it is about Miss Sarti. Don't stay
to tell me anything else now.'
'Well, sir,' said Knott, rather frightened by the parson's vehemence, 'she come
t' our house i' the carrier's cart o' Wednesday, when it was welly nine o'clock
at night; and Dorkis run out, for she heared the cart stop, an' Miss Sarti
throwed her arms roun' Dorkis's neck an' says, "Tek me in, Dorkis, tek me in",
an' went off into a swoond, like. An' Dorkis calls out to me,�"Dannel," she
calls�an' I run out and carried the young miss in, an' she come roun' arter a
hit, an' opened her eyes, and Dorkis got her to drink a spoonful o'
rum-an'-water�we've got some capital rum as we brought from the Cross Keys, and
Dorkis won't let nobody drink it. She says she keeps it for sickness; but for my
part, I think it's a pity to drink good rum when your mouth's out o' taste; you
may just as well hev doctor's stuff. However, Dorkis got her to bed, an' there
she's lay iver sin', stoopid like, an' niver speaks, an' on'y teks little bits
an' sups when Dorkis coaxes her. An' we begun to be frightened, and couldn't
think what had made her come away from the Manor, and Dorkis was afeared there
was summat wrong. So this mornin' she could hold no longer, an' would hev no nay
but I must come an' see; an' so I've rode twenty mile upo' Blackbird, as thinks
all the while he's a-ploughin', an' turns sharp roun', every thirty yards, as if
he was at the end of a furrow. I've hed a sore time wi' him, I can tell you,
sir.'
'God bless you, Knott, for coming!' said Mr Gilfil, wringing the old coachman's
hand again. 'Now go down and have something and rest yourself. You will stay
here to-night, and by-and-by I shall come to you to learn the nearest way to
your house. I shall get ready to ride there immediately, when I have spoken to
Sir Christopher.'
In an hour from that time Mr Gilfil was galloping on a stout mare towards the
little muddy village of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter. Once more he saw
some gladness in the afternoon sunlight; once more it was a pleasure to see the
hedgerow trees flying past him, and to be conscious of a 'good seat' while his
black Kitty bounded beneath him, and the air whistled to the rhythm of her pace.
Caterina was not dead; he had found her; his love and tenderness and
long-suffering seemed so strong, they must recall her to life and happiness.
After that week of despair, the rebound was so violent that it carried his hopes
at once as far as the utmost mark they had ever reached. Caterina would come to
love him at last; she would be his. They had been carried through all that dark
and weary way that she might know the depth of his love. How he would cherish
her�his little bird with the timid bright eye, and the sweet throat that
trembled with love and music! She would nestle against him, and the poor little
breast which had been so ruffled and bruised should be safe for evermore. In the
love of a brave and faithful man there is always a strain of maternal
tenderness; he gives out again those beams of protecting fondness which were
shed on him as he lay on his mother's knee.
It was twilight as he entered the village of Callam, and, asking a
homeward-bound labourer the way to Daniel Knott's, learned that it was by the
church, which showed its stumpy ivy-clad spire on a slight elevation of ground;
a useful addition to the means of identifying that desirable homestead afforded
by Daniel's description�'the prittiest place iver you see'� though a small
cow-yard full of excellent manure, and leading right up to the door, without any
frivolous interruption from garden or railing, might perhaps have been enough to
make that description unmistakably specific.
Mr Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading into the cow-yard. than he was
descried by a flaxen-haired lad of nine, prematurely invested with the toga
virilis, or smock-frock, who ran forward to let in the unusual visitor. In a
moment Dorcas was at the door, the roses on her cheeks apparently all the redder
for the three pair of cheeks which formed a group round her, and for the very
fat baby who stared in her arms, and sucked a long crust with calm relish.
'Is it Mr Gilfil, sir?' said Dorcas, curtsying low as he made his way through
the damp straw, after tying up his horse.
'Yes, Dorcas; I'm grown out of your knowledge. How is Miss Sarti?'
'Just for all the world the same, sir, as I suppose Dannel's told you; for I
sure.'
'Yes, he got to the Manor about one o'clock, and I set off as soon as I could.
She's not worse, is she?'
'No change, sir, for better or wuss. Will you please to walk in, sir? She lies
there takin' no notice o' nothin', no more nor a baby as is on'y a week old, an'
looks at me as blank as if she didn't know me. O what can it be, Mr Gilfil? How
come she to leave the Manor? How's his honour an' my lady?'
'In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir Christopher's nephew, you know,
has died suddenly. Miss Sarti found him lying dead, and I think the shock has
affected her mind.'
'Eh, dear! that fine young gentlemen as was to be th' heir, as Dannel told me
about. I remember seein' him when he was a little un, a-visitin' at the Manor.
Well-a-day, what a grief to his honour and my lady. But that poor Miss Tina�an'
she found him a-lyin' dead? O dear, O dear! '
Dorcas had led the way into the best kitchen, as charming a room as best
kitchens used to be in farmhouses which had no parlours�the fire reflected in a
bright row of pewter plates and dishes; the sand-scoured deal tables so clean
you longed to stroke them; the salt-coffer in one chimney-corner, and a
three-cornered chair in the other, the walls behind handsomely tapestried with
flitches of bacon, and the ceiling ornamented with pendent hams.
'Sit ye down, sir�do,' said Dorcas, moving the three-cornered chair, 'an' let me
get you somethin' after your long journey. Here, Becky, come an' tek the baby.'
Becky, a red-armed damsel, emerged from the adjoining back-kitchen, and
possessed herself of baby, whose feelings or fat made him conveniently apathetic
under the transference.
'What'll you please to tek, sir, as I can give you? I'll get you a rasher o'
bacon i' no time, an' I've got some tea, or be-like you'd tek a glass o'
rum-an'-water. I know we've got nothin' as you're used t' eat and drink; but
such as I hev, sir, I shall be proud to give you.'
'Thank you, Dorcas; I can't eat or drink anything. I'm not hungry or tired. Let
us talk about Tina. Has she spoken at all?'
'Niver since the fust words. "Dear Dorkis," says she, "tek me in"; an' then went
off into a faint, an' not a word has she spoken since. I get her t' eat little
bits an' sups o' things, but she teks no notice o' nothin'. I've took up Bessie
wi' me now an' then'�here Dorcas lifted to her lap a curly-headed little girl of
three, who was twisting a corner of her mother's apron, and opening round eyes
at the gentleman�'folks'll tek notice o' children sometimes when they won't o'
nothin' else. An' we gathered the autumn crocuses out o' th' orchard, and Bessie
carried 'em up in her hand, an' put 'em on the bed. I knowed how fond Miss Tina
was o' flowers an' them things, when she was a little un. But she looked at
Bessie an' the flowers just the same as if she didn't see 'em. It cuts me to th'
heart to look at them eyes o' hers; I think they're bigger nor iver, an' they
look like my poor baby's as died, when it got so thin�O dear, its little hands
you could see thro' 'em. But I've great hopes if she was to see you, sir, as
come from the Manor, it might bring back her mind, like.'
Maynard had that hope too, but he felt cold mists of fear gathering round him
after the few bright warm hours of joyful confidence which had passed since he
first heard that Caterina was alive. The thought wou1d urge itself upon him that
her mind and body might never recover the strain that had been put upon
them�that her delicate thread of life had already nearly spun itself out.
'Go now, Dorcas, and see how she is, but don't say anything about my being here.
Perhaps it would be better for me to wait till daylight before I see her, and
yet it would be very hard to pass another night in this way.'
Dorcas set down little Bessie, and went away. The three other children,
including young Daniel in his smock-frock, were standing opposite to Mr Gilfil,
watching him still more shyly now they were without their mother's countenance.
He drew little Bessie towards him, and set her on his knee. She shook her yellow
curls out of her eyes, and looked up at him as she said,�
'Zoo tome to tee ze yady? Zoo mek her peak? What zoo do to her? Tiss her?'
'Do you like to be kissed, Bessie?'
'Det,' said Bessie, immediately ducking down her head very low, in resistance to
the expected rejoinder.
'We've got two pups,' said young Daniel, emboldened by observing the gentleman's
amenities towards Bessie. 'Shall I show 'em yer? One's got white spots.'
'Yes, let me see them.'
Daniel ran out, and presently reappeared with two blind puppies, eagerly
followed by the mother, affectionate though mongrel, and an exciting scene was
beginning when Dorcas returned and said,�
'There's ni
ver any difference in her hardly. I think you needn't wait, sir. She
lies very still, as she al'ys does. I've put two candle i' the room, so as she
may see you well. You'll please t' excuse the room, sir, an' the cap as she has
on; it's one o' mine.'
Mr Gilfil nodded silently, and rose to follow her up-stairs. They turned in at
the first door, their footsteps making little noise on the plaster floor. The
red-checkered linen curtains were drawn at the head of the bed, and Dorcas had
placed the candles on this side of the room, so that the light might not fall
oppressively on Caterina's eyes. When she had opened the door, Dorcas whispered,
'I'd better leave you, sir, I think?'
Mr Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond the curtain. Caterina lay with
her eyes turned the other way, and seemed unconscious that any one had entered.
Her eyes, as Dorcas had said, looked larger than ever, perhaps because her face
was thinner and paler, and her hair quite gathered away under one of Dorcas's
thick caps. The small hands, too, that lay listlessly on the outside of the
bed-clothes were thinner than ever. She looked younger than she really was, and
any one seeing the tiny face and hands for the first time might have thought
they belonged to a little girl of twelve, who was being taken away from coming
instead of past sorrow.
When Mr Gilfil advanced and stood opposite to her, the light fell full upon his
face. A slight startled expression came over Caterina's eyes; she looked at him
earnestly for a few moments, then lifted up her hand as if to beckon him to
stoop down towards her, and whispered 'Maynard! '
He seated himself on the bed, and stooped down towards her. She whispered again�
'Maynard, did you see the dagger? '
He followed his first impulse in answering her, and it was a wise one.
'Yes,' he whispered, 'I found it in your pocket, and put it back again in the
cabinet.'
He took her hand in his and held it gently, awaiting what she would say next.
His heart swelled so with thankfulness that she had recognized him, he could
hardly repress a sob. Gradually her eyes became softer and less intense in their
gaze. The tears were slowly gathering, and presently some large hot drops rolled
down her cheek. Then the flood-gates were opened, and the heart-easing stream
gushed forth; deep sobs came; and for nearly an hour she lay without speaking,
while the heavy icy pressure that withheld her misery from utterance was thus
melting away. How precious these tears were to Maynard, who day after day had
been shuddering at the continually recurring image of Tina with the dry
scorching stare of insanity!
By degrees the sobs subsided, she began to breathe calmly, and lay quiet with
her eyes shut. Patiently Maynard sat, not heeding the flight of the hours, not
heeding the old clock that ticked loudly on the landing. But when it was nearly
ten, Dorcas, impatiently anxious to know the result of Mr Gilfil's appearance,
could not help stepping in on tip-toe. Without moving, he whispered in her ear
to supply him with candles, see that the cow-boy had shaken down his mare, and
go to bed�he would watch with Caterina�a great change had come over her.
Before long, Tina's lips began to move. 'Maynard,' she whispered again. He
leaned towards her, and she went on.
'You know how wicked I am, then? You know what I meant to do with the dagger?"
'Did you mean to kill yourself, Tina?'
She shook her head slowly, and then was silent for a long while. At last,
looking at him with solemn eyes, she whispered, 'To kill him.'
'Tina, my loved one, you would never have done it. God saw your whole heart; He
knows you would never harm a living thing. He watches over His children, and
will not let them do things they would pray with their whole hearts not to do.
It was the angry thought of a moment, and He forgives you.'